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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240423">you will want to thank and thank someone quietly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/owj95/pseuds/owj95'>owj95</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peaky Blinders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:06:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/owj95/pseuds/owj95</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>AU following Grace’s death in which Arthur, John, and Polly do for Tommy what he would have done for any of them – arrange a marriage without his consent. Time heals all wounds.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you will want to thank and thank someone quietly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>i.	useless</p>
<p>The first few weeks after Grace’s death, Thomas Shelby is so anguished and angry and drunk that he is useless. </p>
<p>There is business with the Russians and the Priest, this the family knows. But they do not know, cannot know the extent of that business. They hold meetings, sometimes whispering, usually shouting, about what to do and who to meet. No one knows enough to call the shots. Polly, tired as she’s been in some time, on her third or fourth smoke of the morning, inevitably ends each meeting with “It’ll have to wait for Tommy.” Course, there’s not much time left for waiting. </p>
<p>(Business aside, there is the matter of Charlie, who thank stars is being watched over by maids and nannies. Charlie aside, there is Thomas, who is being watched over by gin and opium.)</p>
<p>Tommy won’t take calls from family. He’ll not respond to their letters. Arrow House is shut up, save for the staff and the horses. If business is being conducted, if the Shelby men are surviving, the rest of the Shelby clan have no way of knowing. </p>
<p>Several weeks and two botched meetings with the Russians later, Polly pushes into the dusty back rooms at Waterly Lane and nods to Arthur and John. They’re already standing around that worn table, like the old days, waiting for Pol or Tommy to show up and give orders (whether they want to admit that or not). </p>
<p>“You’ve called me down here. Can’t be good. Get on with what you need.” She pours some whiskey, sits at the head of the table. </p>
<p>Arthur, to her immediate right, looks solemn. That’s usual these days. Better than crazed, in Pol’s opinion, but she’s fine keeping that to herself for the moment. When she makes eye contact with him, a hard gaze but not upset, he snuffles a bit and looks to John. Right, so he’s weary then. </p>
<p>John, usually so charismatic and unafraid, stands to Artur’s side. Solemn, too that one. </p>
<p>Pol takes a sip of whiskey, looks at her nephews, and feels simultaneously angry and dreadful for Thomas. He’s arrogant and inconsiderate, but this ship doesn’t run so well without him. “Get on with it, I said.” She doesn’t have time for this.</p>
<p>John sparks up a bit. “Right, Aunt Pol. We called you here because we’ve got an idea. Actually, was Esme’s idea, but…we want to run it by you.” <br/>Pol raises an eyebrow, takes another sip. “Running shit by me. That’s new. What is it, then?”</p>
<p>Arthur keeps looking so damn glum. John clears his throat, fiddles with the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, sighs and tells Pol the plan. “Yeah, so we were thinking. We need Tommy. And Tommy needs Grace. ‘Cept she’s gone. But there’s plenty good women out there. One’s that ain’t traitors, families don’t wear the bloody uniform. Thought we’d find Tommy a wife. So’s he can get back to himself, get all this sorted.” </p>
<p>Pol’s never stopped looking between her nephews. The boys she helped raise and went into business with. They’ve been hopelessly naive in the past. Hopelessly cocky and brash, too. She’s built a livelihood putting out their fires, being two steps ahead of their next foolish fuck up. But she’s always had to admit they’ve never been dumb. And this, for as simple as it is, is a very smart idea. </p>
<p>Pol’s hard glare shifts to something more…appreciative. She smiles at her nephews and raises that eyebrow again. “That’s not a bad idea after all.” </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Esme’s not dumb either. A cousin, a Lee by distant blood, needs married off. </p>
<p>Naomie Lee is just turned 22, born to respectable enough parents, and used to traveling. She’s pretty in her way and mindful. Her parents are happy to marry their daughter off to Thomas Shelby and unconcerned with the rest. </p>
<p>Esme figures, the Shelby’s and the Lee’s have made good; her cousin needs a husband; Tommy needs a wife; the world sorts itself out. </p>
<p>Good match aside, it’s Tommy’s call. This, they all know. What with him ignoring calls and house visits, they all realize getting Tommy to agree to a new wife will be half the battle. First, they’ve got to get him to his wedding. </p>
<p>In the end, Ada is their ploy. When Arthur calls her over the phone, she’s happy to even be hearing from her brother. When he tells her the plan, she’s delighted in the way mischievous little sisters are. Oh, it’s all for Tommy’s good, but the chance to play god with him for once is too good to pass up on. </p>
<p>“Absolutely, Arthur. Give me a call when you’ve got it all sorted. I’ll plan a play date with Karl and Charlie, then take Tommy out for a drive. Unless he wants to hop out of my car on the way there, I’ll get him to you.” </p>
<p>Ada hangs up the telephone and nearly laughs; it would be just like Thomas to hop out of her car, though, wouldn’t it? Ah, he’d find a way to look dignified doing it, too. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>A housekeeper, Mary, happily pencils Ada and Karl in for a playdate to occur on a sunny Saturday morning. As she closes the pocket calendar, she breathes a sigh of relief. </p>
<p>Since Ms. Grace’s death, things have been abysmal in Arrow House. What with the master of the house smoking and sulking and screaming through the night, and with little Charlie growing so quickly and needing so much care. </p>
<p>It will be nice to have company for once. Sane people to tend to, Mary thinks, but she does care for Mr. Shelby and would never voice her thought aloud. </p>
<p>And it will be nice for Charlie to have someone to play with. The maids and nannies do alright, but children like to play childish games. </p>
<p>Mary straightens up in the telephone nook and sets out to find Mr. Shelby. Isn’t hard these days – either the study or the smallest guest bedroom. </p>
<p>When she cannot find him in the study, Mary prepares herself for facing him in the bedroom. The bedroom means opium, though she’s unsure if he realizes all the help know. The opium means quite useless and sometimes disturbing interactions. Today, she thinks climbing the stairs, always upward and always past Ms. Grace in that lovely painting, today she’s hoping for useless over disturbing. </p>
<p>Past the master bedroom (undisturbed after the incident, except to find a dress and hairpin in which to bury Ms. Grace), past the library, past Charlie’s room, Mary finds Mr. Shelby in the smallest guest bedroom. </p>
<p>It is cool and dark. It smells of opium and sweat. Mary stands in the doorway, feeling rather like a mother watching over her young child. Mr. Shelby is curled up, atop the comforter and pillows, sleeping in a full suit. She cannot understand why he dresses fully each day, only to drink or smoke himself into a stupor. </p>
<p>Regardless, he looks small, indeed like a child, asleep as he is. Mary had heard awful things about Mr. Shelby before coming to work for him. He sounded like a strange and terrifying man, like a monster. She nearly smiled when, as Ms. Grace interviewed her, the man of the house walked into the maids’ kitchen. The formidable man himself was stood before her and he was…slight. Well dressed and quite serious, truly an intimidating man with the way he looked and didn’t look away. But he was slight of frame and short of stature, there was no denying. </p>
<p>And now he looks even smaller, Mary thinks. He’s not so intimidating like this, so it’s easy for Mary to walk into the bedroom and touch Mr. Shelby’s shoulder. </p>
<p>He’s a light sleeper, most men from the war are, and his eyes alight on her immediately. </p>
<p>“Yes, Mary.” He’s always been direct, but he’s downright monotone these days. Wants the facts, then to be left clear alone, Mary has learned. </p>
<p>“Ms. Ada Shelby has scheduled a playdate for Mr. Karl and Mr. Charles for this Saturday. She expects she will be here by 9am, sir.” Mary’s voice is crisp but low. She imagines Mr. Shelby cannot handle any more than that. </p>
<p>When his eyes lose their clarity and focus, when he says nothing at all to this, Mary understands Mr. Shelby is still quite affected. </p>
<p>“That is all, sir.”</p>
<p>She leaves, shuts the door, and lets the little boy inside slumber. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Four days later, Karl and Charlie are attempting to play by the staircase as Mary leads Ms. Ada up to the guestroom. </p>
<p>She starts an explanation, but Ada waves her off. “It’s alright, thank you, I’ll handle him.” </p>
<p>Mary leaves at that, relieved. </p>
<p>Ada opens the door and sighs. The great Thomas Shelby, high as all hell, sweating from the temple, asleep in no better than a child’s bed. </p>
<p>Ada loves her brother and it hurts her to see him like this. The gravity of the situation hits her, then: Tommy has never slept through a bedroom door opening, has never let his pain be so visible. He’s in a very bad way and she’s going to drive him to marry some poor girl today in the hopes that he gets himself back together. </p>
<p>But those are feelings best saved for herself. Tommy can smell weakness and she’ll need to be stern and strong to get through today. </p>
<p>“Thomas.” She says from the doorway, not quite kindly. He doesn’t move. </p>
<p>She moves into the room and approaches the window three, maybe four feet from the bed. She opens the blinds. “Thomas, wake up. Fuck’s sake.”</p>
<p>The sunlight works. Tommy stirs and tries to clear a dry throat. </p>
<p>“Ada. You can go.” He does not look at her, directs those eyes of his to the door. But Ada is Tommy’s equal and besides, he’s no gangster curled up in bed like this. </p>
<p>So, Ada scoffs and the arguing commences. An hour later, he meets her downstairs in a fresh suit and shaven. The hair’s a little long, Ada thinks, and he’s a bit shy of sober. </p>
<p>But he looks presentable enough for the drive he thinks he’s going on. So, they leave, right on time. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>The countryside is bright, Tommy thinks. And the air hurts a bit to breathe. And Ada’s fucking driving is making him nauseated. </p>
<p>He’s not enjoying this and he isn’t sure why she thought he would.</p>
<p>“Lovely of you to come see me, Ada.” Tommy reaches inside of his jacket for a cigarette. Pinch, moisten, light, inhale. His nerve endings zing and then relax. If he can’t have the dope, tobacco will do. </p>
<p>He exhales and turns to his sister, who must have learned from him the art of giving nothing away. “It’s what any sister would do,” is what she says. Even if he wanted to raise his voice, his fucking head hurts too badly. </p>
<p>“Alright. What’re you doing, Ada?”</p>
<p>She looks solemn and truthful for a brief moment before smirking. Tommy slaps the dashboard and smokes his cigarette. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>It takes Arthur, John, and Jeremiah to hold Tommy up once he sees all the caravans, all his family, all the fucking Lees, and puts the pieces together. </p>
<p>They all assumed he’d run or shoot or fight or fucking shout. No one expected him to collapse. Not like a woman, backward and dramatic. But like a soldier who’s just had his knees kicked out. Like going down into prayer unwillingly. </p>
<p>He doesn’t cry when his knees hit the ground. He looks as though he wants to kill them all and himself. It takes all of them to hoist him back up and hold him that way and walk him to the altar laid out between two vans. </p>
<p>It takes John, in a twisted introversion of past events, whispering furiously to Tommy about new beginnings and needing a woman and getting back to it. </p>
<p>It takes Arthur slapping his back so fucking hard he could throw up, just to keep his adrenaline up, just to stop the fainting. </p>
<p>And it takes Aunt Pol, who couldn’t contain her displeasure with Grace, laying her hand on his cheek and nodding, like when he was a boy. </p>
<p>He is, he supposes, in shock. Too much drinking and too much smoking have left him ill-equipped to deal with this level of sabotage. His mind and his spirit left him two months ago, and it looks like the fight left, too. </p>
<p>After France, death did little to scare Tommy. He feels as if he died with Grace, which is fine on all accounts. If this shell of himself marries this…girl, who is Tommy to care? The real Tommy is gone. The shell that’s left can ignore this marriage as well as he pleases. </p>
<p>So, he says vows in Romani he forgot he knew. Listens as a voice to his right says the same. Open palm, blood to blood. </p>
<p>An elder woman prophesizes good blessings and health. There is demure clapping. No kissing. No celebration. Pol pays the bride price, a nice sum from the company he’s sure. </p>
<p>Tommy gets back in the car beside Ada, just like this morning. A girl sits behind him in the back. </p>
<p>Just like that, Tommy is married again. </p>
<p>ii.	unwanted </p>
<p>Naomie Shelby is used to a life of traveling. The caravans are plentiful on the road, but they’re tight inside. She’d always shared one with a cousin or a sibling, and that was fine because she’d known nothing else. </p>
<p>When she’d gone to bed the night before, she’d known life would be different come morning. Everyone knew Thomas Shelby. Amongst all the things she knew about him – that he was a gangster, that he wasn’t an altogether good man, that he had what he wanted – Naomie knew Thomas Shelby was very wealthy. </p>
<p>She felt grateful when her parents announced the marriage, but nervous. </p>
<p>Grateful because she’d seen the man once, when her cousin Esme was married off, and she knew him to be handsome and young. She was getting older and, shameful as it was to admit, worried her parents would never find a match for her. (She’d remind herself late at night that as wild and willful as young girls can be, desiring partnership must be natural.) </p>
<p>Nervous because he was heartbroken and probably didn’t want her, and had a child, and might expect much out of her, and and and…</p>
<p>But all Naomie feels now, starting up at Arrow House after her unceremonious wedding, is uncertain. This house is ridiculous. And beautiful. And imposing in a way that strikes something inside Naomie which says, you are not big enough to fill this space. This house is a constant reminder of wealth and power. Naomie is uncertain she knows how to be a wealthy woman, let alone the kind her husband needs. </p>
<p>He is already inside. There is an older woman standing beside the grand doorway, waiting for her. Ada Shelby, her sister-in-law, she supposes, is gathering some of her belongings from the boot. </p>
<p>No one from her family is here to wish her well. Ada will leave once all of Naomie’s things are handed off to the help, and the girl knows the maids won’t stick around unless she asks them to; she will not ask them to. Mr. Shelby, for she doesn’t know what to call him yet, is far, far away. She saw him collapse when he arrived; he’d needed to be carried to her. She’d noticed the emptiness in his eyes and the hollowness in his voice during the ceremony. He hadn’t winced at the knife to his palm or kissed her, not even her cheek. </p>
<p>Ada hands off Naomi’s things and squeezes her hand before driving away. The maid gives up, walks away and leaves the door propped open. </p>
<p>Naomi is alone now, staring at this grand house, in which lives a grand man. </p>
<p>She feels like a little girl. She is uncertain and scared. But, she figures, she is Naomie Shelby and it’s always seemed like the Shelby’s can do anything. </p>
<p>On cold, cold nights, she’s dreamt of slipping into a hot bath and falling asleep in a big bed, all her own, in a big bedroom with its very own fire. Year after year, wedding after wedding, she’s itched to share her smiles and laughter and love with someone, and to maybe have those things given back to her. If all she has to do is live here in this grand house and try to love this grand man, she supposes she can do just that. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>After two weeks, Tommy realizes he doesn’t mind the girl, which pisses him off. </p>
<p>It’s dinner time and he’s sitting beside her. </p>
<p>The drinking and smoking have not worn down. He has not seen his family since they fucking married him off. The Russians and the Priest and all the rest can go to hell or set his fucking house on fire or any number of other things. Charlie is being watched by someone he pays very fucking well. He wouldn’t know what the hell to do with a child right now anyway. </p>
<p>Tommy does not care. He’s not taking to married life with this random girl. He’s not getting back to business. But he does, on occasion, get hungry enough to eat. And on those occasions, the maids have stopped bringing him his meals. So, if he intends to eat, he must join his fucking wife in the dining room. Being bossed around by a bunch of nosey women, he is. </p>
<p>Ah, but he doesn’t mind her, Naomie. </p>
<p>Above all, she’s fucking blessedly quiet. No chit chat out of her. A year ago, this would have annoyed him. As it is, he can’t stand to hear his own fucking thoughts, so quiet is best. </p>
<p>More, if she’s quiet he can go about ignoring her presence. The only woman who should be sat at this table is his Grace. And she is gone. The less this girl says, the less he’s likely to put a bullet in her or himself. </p>
<p>Quiet aside, she’s the exact opposite of Grace. Grace, willowy and blonde, eyes funny with the look of a woman ready to ask sweetly for what she wants and then take, elegant, lovely, fucking Grace. He dreams of her, he sees her everywhere. </p>
<p>She looks nothing like Grace. Easier to know when he’s in the here and now looking at this girl, easier to keep his mouth shut, not blab on and cry to a ghost. </p>
<p>Where Grace was willowy tall, Naomie would fit under his chin, if he were so inclined to bring the girl so close. He’s never been close enough to smell her. Doesn’t fucking care. </p>
<p>Where Grace had the lean muscle of a woman trained under the Crown, Naomie’s slender frame betrays her contented youth – hips and ass and tits all there, good thighs he’d bet, none of her muscle quite defined, a softness to her tummy where Grace was firm even after Charlie. </p>
<p>Where Grace was blonde and dangerous, this one is made of darker things. She’s got that thick, curly Lee hair. Thick, arched eyebrows too. Thick fucking eyelashes around big brown eyes. So much brown everywhere, this fucking girl. Grace looked like a painting. This girl looks like she came out of the earth. Too close to the stuff Tommy’s made of for him to want her. </p>
<p>And sweet. Not to achieve anything, not fucking cunning or charming as women should be. She wants to do good shit just because she can. Wants to play with Charlie because he’s around. Wants to keep his good whiskey stocked because he likes it. Wants to keep the maids out of his room because he needs to sleep. She’s dumb as a fucking rock, he thinks. </p>
<p>Where Grace was a woman, Naomie is a girl. </p>
<p>He probably would’ve fucked her, once upon a time. The type happy to see him come, no matter what, he figures. Wouldn’t quite fuck like a woman, the way Grace did, like she knew exactly what she wanted and was going to get it. He almost huffs thinking of it. Nah, Naomie would fuck meekly, losing the rhythm, all that – good for getting off when stressed. But he doesn’t have to look at her to know he doesn’t want to fuck her. She is too young for him. She’s not willful enough. She’s a fucking glorified babysitter. </p>
<p>He doesn’t mind her but he sure as hell doesn’t want her.</p>
<p>Tommy finishes as much food as he’s going to and pours another glass of whiskey. He grabs a cigarette. Pinch, moisten, light, inhale. He blows his smoke out; it must get into her face, but she says nothing. Grace would’ve said something, but he reminds himself her quiet is a fucking blessing. He hurts inside and he’s tired. </p>
<p>He downs the rest of his drink. Doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t excuse himself. Gets up and walks out of the dining. </p>
<p>“Goodnight, Mr. Shelby.” There she is, such a sweet, dumb chit. (They’re different this way, too. Grace had such a beautiful, lilting voice. This one…voice and body and face like the fucking earth.) He says nothing, goes up and up, avoids Grace’s smiling eyes on the stairwell, and finds some peace with his pipe. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Naomie feels sick inside. </p>
<p>Mr. Shelby doesn’t come down to eat often, but when he does, she gets excited. It’s silly, she knows. She’s here to love him even if he can’t love himself. In part, that means taking care of him: she’s been emptying half of his liquor bottles out and replacing them with water; she’s been letting him sleep in and nap as much as possible; she’s been watching over Charlie so the maids can get the house together and tend to his family, though he doesn’t realize they come around sometimes. </p>
<p>But loving Mr. Shelby also means locking up that part of herself that wants to give shining, radiant goodness to a person and get love back. She’s seen him – she knows he can barely handle her presence, let alone her energy. And she’s beginning to realize he may never speak to her, let alone return any care or love. </p>
<p>Tonight, he’d eaten more than usual. And still hadn’t noticed his drink was less potent than usual. And he hadn’t turned those icy eyes on her, like he does sometimes, expression unchanging and so, so intimidating. </p>
<p>She supposes being ignored is better than being openly despised. And even though she knows he’s mourning a woman who is very much still the mistress of Arrow House, Naomie is childishly starting to feel sad, of all the small and silly emotions, that he doesn’t like her. Never mind that the maids, his family, even Charlie like her. </p>
<p>She finishes her meal. She stares at out the grand windows that overlook grand land. She has her own bedroom, with its own fire, and a lovely bathtub. She has a husband. She feels so, so terribly, painfully lonely. </p>
<p>Staring out the window, she replays the morning of her wedding, if only to hear his voice again. She wonders what he sounds like when he’s happy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>iii.	withdrawals</p>
<p>Tommy feels fucking off. He woke up feeling off and angry and goddamn itchy. He’d immediately made a drink, smoked a cigarette, made another drink. </p>
<p>But the whiskey’s stopped working and so has the gin. </p>
<p>He’s sitting in his study by the fire. He hasn’t been behind his desk in months. He’s almost shocked at how little he cares about the business (but some nights, little plans stitch themselves together while he falls asleep). He gets up to pour another drink when he gets a good look at the whiskey decanter. </p>
<p>It’s not sitting in the sun, but it looks bright-through like it is. He stands in his study, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an empty glass, staring at that decanter like it holds answers. </p>
<p>Maybe it does: why he’s able to remember his dreams, why his body hurts so damn badly, why he can hear fucking Ada and John laughing in his house some days, why the opium doesn’t put him under as well as usual…</p>
<p>“Fucking watered down.” He scowls.</p>
<p>On the one hand, he doesn’t want to be above water. His naps have been so peaceful. Grace is there, nothing hurts, there’s no worry. </p>
<p>On the other, now that he’s even a tiny bit alert, the core of Tommy rears up and wants a better look: what exactly is going on with his business? with his family? with this girl in his home? </p>
<p>Surely it was her, watering his liquor down. He almost calls for her, but he doesn’t want to speak to her. Might not be able to speak to her without fucking snapping. </p>
<p>It’s enough for now, he decides, that he knows he’s not sharing space with a completely useless little girl. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Tommy feels alert for two days before the withdrawals start. </p>
<p>Upon realizing Naomie’s game, he starts drinking more, trying to take the edge back off. But this makes him piss more and it’s fucking frustrating. </p>
<p>He can’t smoke enough opium to put him under as well as the fine mixture of a bottle plus the pipe. He starts taking as much as he can handle, but it’s not as much as he could handle with the drink. </p>
<p>His body is used to a near constant, near deadly mix of alcohol and opium. Without it, he wakes up too early one Thursday morning, shaking and sweating, ready to throw up. <br/>Again, he nearly shouts out. This time for Grace. He realizes just in time how foolish that is. Doesn’t want to call out for Mary or any of the others. He’ll call for Arthur Sr. before he calls for Naomie. </p>
<p>So, he rocks in bed, gritting his teeth and shivering and sweating, until it gets to be too much, at which point the great Thomas Shelby passes out. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Mary finds Mr. Shelby this way and calls a physician. He will not be happy with this, she thinks, but I won’t see the man dead. </p>
<p>Then she finds Mrs. Shelby and tells her of her husband’s state. That done, Mary returns to the kitchens, relieved as always once done with Mr. Shelby. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>The second time Naomie hears her husband speak, he is four days into a terrible and terrifying withdrawal. He’s crying Grace’s name. </p>
<p>His voice maintains its depth, even in despair. The way it sounds, even through phantom tears, sounds almost sweet. She imagines he addressed Grace sternly and so, so lovingly. </p>
<p>She sighs. Takes a fresh, cold washcloth to his forehead, moves it to his temples. The hair there is shorter than at the top, but long nonetheless; it’s starting to grey. </p>
<p>It is two in the morning and his family have all left for the day. She is tired and she is sad. </p>
<p>Naomie all at once feels heartbroken for this man and livid at her parents for matching her with him. She’s almost sure she’ll spend all of her beautiful years loving a man who doesn’t see her. </p>
<p>He whimpers through the night, while she sits beside his small bed and keeps his face cool. It’s a strange thing. This man took the eyes of her cousins. He’s orchestrated assassinations. He scares the devil himself. </p>
<p>He whimpers through the night and Naomie keeps a close eye on his heart rate. When dawn breaks, she is ready to bathe and sleep and forget about expecting love in return for goodness. His Aunt Polly, who looks at Naomie with pity and kindness, will be here soon. Perhaps, Naomie thinks, she can take over. </p>
<p>She’s squeezing water over his cracked lips and thinking of ways to convince Ms. Polly to step in when he gasps, a small pitiful sound. Her hand falls to his neck quickly, searching for a pulse. His neck is so warm (for the quickest moment, she imagines what he smells like there, what’d it’d feel like to kiss him there) and she can’t find his pulse, God, but if he’s dying…<br/>“Naomie.” That deep voice. That accent, almost garbled. Strong, even over just that one word. </p>
<p>He’s speaking to her. Naomie’s hand freezes over his neck. She looks to his face. His eyes…she understands how he inspires both fear and fellowship in others. With his eyes as clear as she’s ever seen them, Thomas Shelby looks right through Naomie and pins her where she sits. </p>
<p>He doesn’t thank her. He doesn’t say anything else. Just speaks her name, sees her. </p>
<p>Naomie feels lighter for the rest of the day. </p>
<p>Christ, this man is dangerous. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>When he has moments of clarity, sometimes Tommy finds a doctor near him. He tries to keep a mental note to dismiss Mary, for the doctor must be her doing. Sometimes it’s Aunt Pol reading, or Finn looking bored and worried, or Arthur and Linda praying, or John and Esme trying to argue quietly. </p>
<p>But most times, Tommy awakes to find the girl, Naomie beside him. Often, she’s cleaning him of sweat or trying to comfort him. Sometimes her back is turned to him, looking out the bedroom window to the grounds. Rarely, she’s asleep in the chair kept next to his bed. Once, he awakens to her at the bedroom door, knelt down to a child’s size, whispering to Charlie about visiting daddy another time. </p>
<p>He hurt so badly at first, shook so terribly. Now, he can feel his body getting better. </p>
<p>But his mind and his heart are a different story. Grace is often with him in his sleep. She always disappears before he can open his eyes. That hurts bad, it does. But fuck, it’s nice that someone is with him when he awakens. That’s a thought he forgets as soon as he’s back under.</p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Tommy knows he’s right as fucking rain when he starts thinking about business before his dream even ends. He feels aware of the space around him before he’s even awake. </p>
<p>Tommy decides to wake up, just like in the old days.</p>
<p>When he does, Naomie is sitting beside him, staring at him in her unusual way. Her eyes are big and intense when she looks at something; not intense like his, but adoring, like trying to imprint something into memory. It makes him itch that she looks at him like that. </p>
<p>He doesn’t want her to think he cares for her or anything fucking foolish like that, but he won’t ignore her. And he needs help. </p>
<p>He clears his throat, dry as hell and uncomfortable. Returns her stare and watches the way her cheeks pink up. Women are interesting and predictable, he thinks. Still, something deep deep deep inside of him says, cute, that. </p>
<p>“Bring me a glass of water and my cigarettes. Call my aunt and tell her I’m awake.” </p>
<p>She gets up to leave the room. She’s wearing something from her traveling days; he’ll have to order her clothes. With her complexion, he thinks he’ll order her something yellow. </p>
<p>She’s at the door and he thinks of telling her to get some rest, but she starts to smile as she closes the door and instead, he says, “Don’t touch my fucking whiskey again.”</p>
<p>He meant it as a threat, but she giggles in surprise anyway. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>iv.	 desire</p>
<p>Over the next few months, Tommy gains his weight back. </p>
<p>He relearns how to drink to clear his mind.</p>
<p>He reacquaints himself with his son, who is wanting of Tommy, but fearful. </p>
<p>He handles that fucking crazy Russian bitch and that fucking pedophile priest. </p>
<p>He hands each brother and Aunt Pol significant sums of money. </p>
<p>He considers firing Mary because of the whole doctor thing but decides he’s in no mood to try his luck with a new maid. </p>
<p>He buys a new horse and trains it. </p>
<p>He looks at Grace, larger than life, when he passes her portrait at the end of the night. </p>
<p>He may or may not start a war with the Italians. </p>
<p>And he watches. Tommy watches Naomie and feels angry and disgusted and needful. </p>
<p>She’s not usually in his periphery. Work takes him away from Arrow House often and when he’s in, he’s in his study or his room. Since that morning he awoke, she hasn’t been needed there. </p>
<p>But when he does spot her in his house, he can’t help but take notice. Within the house, she can be graceful. He notices in the way she rises off the floor after playing with Charlie or moves from action to action with fluid little motions. Mostly, within the house, she looks like a very young girl tasting royalty. When she thinks no one is watching, she drinks with her pinky in the air, sits near the phone like a duchess taking her calls. And she smiles – wide at others, or small and close-lipped to herself, or just in her eyes when she’s watching the maids hustle and bustle. When she doesn’t smile, her face holds no storminess. She is simple and calm. She’s young enough for that sort of thing. </p>
<p>Outside of the house, when he can see her from his bedroom window on the estate, she is a free little thing, he thinks. She likes to go out with no stockings, barefoot. She doesn’t mind the dirt. She doesn’t mind laying out in the grass. She spends hours outside, looking at the sky, sleeping, reading. She comes back inside tracking the smell of summer in with her – thick and offensive against the smell of clean linens. She goes to wash her feet and pops right back outside, some summer fruit or the other in hand, to watch the sunset from the manor steps. </p>
<p>She is exceptionally entertaining to watch, Tommy thinks. But he must admit she’s also exceptionally pretty in her activities. </p>
<p>It feels wrong to desire anything but Grace’s svelte movement and direct actions. Grace moved with purpose. Naomie often walked into a room, spun around, chuckled at forgetting what she needed, and walked right back out. </p>
<p>It feels wrong and it infuriates him, but Tommy is a man, and he recognizes a pretty face when he sees one. Naomie’s got quite a pretty face and quite a soft looking body (and quite a tender patience that does something for him he doesn’t want to explore). </p>
<p>When he can strategize no longer, he sits in front of his fire and nurses a glass of whiskey. The house is quiet and warm. His muscles feel bunched up and as his brain relaxes, he starts to feel his humanity thaw a bit.</p>
<p>He thinks of thawing out completely. Of having a woman to empty himself inside of, a woman who would be happy to be used so. </p>
<p>He thinks of Naomie’s bright smile and that intense way she looks at him and he imagines she might look up at him just like that if he ever fucked her. He thinks she would be happy just for him to come to her bedroom door. He thinks he’d been wrong about not wanting her all those months ago. </p>
<p>He thinks very briefly and very bitterly that she might smile even brighter if he made her feel good, too. </p>
<p>She isn’t the right woman, but she is a woman, and he does want her.</p>
<p>(And a small part of him that is getting bigger and bigger, the part that doesn’t want to think about her patience and his adoration of that patience, appreciates her.) </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Tommy has always been attractive to Naomie.</p>
<p>He’s obviously attractive at first sight. </p>
<p>More than that face and those eyes and lips, he’s formidable and a bit intimidating and he’s decided to keep his family in this big manor – it makes her feel protected. </p>
<p>He’s hurt people, she knows. He’s killed people. But those same hands are gentle and clumsy and unsure with Charlie. She’ll catch him cleaning his guns or holding Charlie’s hand and, right there in broad daylight, will slip into one daydream or another about how rough or gentle his hands would be on her. </p>
<p>His voice hits right at her stomach. When he’s loud and stern, almost never yelling, over the phone late at night, her breathing patters so strangely. She thinks of the first time he said her name, of their vows, of the clipped and growling way he says fuck and her face gets so, so warm. </p>
<p>But lately, Tommy has been acting as though they live in the same universe, and it makes her dizzy and silly in her desire for him. </p>
<p>When he looks at her, gives her his full attention, and asks her to do something for the house or nods in thanks, she could…die; melt; lie down, belly in the air, supple for him. </p>
<p>She is a virgin, but desire is not new. Being around a man who looks and acts like Tommy Shelby is new, however. Being married that that man, knowing she might one day have him…she acts so desperately sometimes she wonders that he hasn’t called her family to retrieve her. After all, theirs is not a true marriage. Not until it’s consummated. </p>
<p>She thinks of consummation every single night. If he’ll come to her tired in the night, or worked up after a fight, or desperate after someone’s threatened to hurt her. It’s all very dramatic and romantic in her mind, no matter how hard she tries to be realistic. She assumes he’s been with whores lately and that if he comes to her, it will be for his needs only. She thinks to herself, quiet and shameful in her own mind, that she would take that. </p>
<p>But she wants him to want her. She wants him to smile at her. Wants him to take those hands of his and hold her face or press lightly on her throat. She doesn’t know much of the mechanics of sex, but she knows if he talked to her the way he does when he’s explaining directions, low and slow and guiding, he could reduce her to atoms. </p>
<p>She figures if he makes love as powerfully and directly as he walks around his home, he could make her an addict. </p>
<p>Naomie does her best to love him now, but she thinks if he were ever inside her, she’d do anything he asked of her. </p>
<p>(She thinks if his laugh or smile were pointed in her direction, that all that might be too much for her. She’ll settle quite happily for receiving him.) </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>Nearly six months after their wedding, Tommy calls for Naomie. </p>
<p>It’s just past midnight. The household is asleep, but Tommy is in the middle of some tricky strategizing – always, with people trying to fuck him over. </p>
<p>He leaves his study and stands at the base of the main stairwell. He tilts his head up in the direction of the ceiling and calls her name like he’s bored. </p>
<p>He knows she’s heard him. She’ll be down soon. Rest of the house will fall back asleep, he’s not concerned. </p>
<p>Back in his study, he reaches for a cigarette. Pinch, moisten, light, inhale. He knows he has no use for her at this hour. But he’s feeling energetic, despite the hour and the situation, and he wants company. All that beside, Naomie looked radiant today and he didn’t get to look at her as much as he’d have liked. </p>
<p>He hears her at the door but doesn’t look up from his desk. </p>
<p>“Tommy.” She’d called him Mr. Shelby for so long. He wasn’t going to stop her, but John’d embarrassed her so badly she’d stopped. Her voice, like wet, warm dirt hits his insides like a good whiskey and calms his energy. </p>
<p>If he looked up, he’d see how excited and nervous she looks. He doesn’t look up, he pretends to read a letter in front of him and says, “come here.”</p>
<p>This is a common enough directive. He’s usually telling someone to come to him. He tells her often when he has a task or chore. </p>
<p>But he has no task or chore for Miss Naomie. His brain is pleasantly calm and he has no plan. Thomas Shelby doesn’t know what he’s doing. Sometimes, he admits to himself as she walks over thick carpet toward him, it’s good to see where things land. </p>
<p>It isn’t until she’s standing near the left edge of his desk, as she is when she takes directives, that he looks at her.</p>
<p>Naomie still sleeps in her traveling clothes. That is to say, in barely a fucking thing – a nightgown worn thin and stopping above her knees. It hangs off of her unflatteringly, but her breasts and the shadow of her waist are visible despite it. And…he’d been right to guess about her thighs. Her legs are long for her height and slender, but her thighs look soft. They’d feel good on either side of his hips, even better in his grasp. </p>
<p>Her room must be warm, because she still smells like her bed. Her hair has been braided for sleep, but frizzes and curls around her face. </p>
<p>In all the places Tommy feels hard and sharp (and for good reason) here is a girl with rounded edges. He wants to have just a little bit of that to himself. </p>
<p>He watches Naomie be observed; somedays her face pinks up, but tonight she glows under his eye. Her eyes get wider and darker and she looks so goddamn soft and inviting; he knows she’s wet. He knows she isn’t handling that properly. She looks ready to become a woman. Tommy thinks he’s ready to make her one when she speaks.   </p>
<p>“You yelled for me. Do you need anything?” So sweet, so eager to help him, she is. It doesn’t tamper his desire, but it makes him reconsider pulling her from her sleep to satisfy his midnight…whatever this is. </p>
<p>He sighs. Inhale, exhale. The smoke in her face makes her scrunch up her nose but her lips tilt up. She’d said once she likes the smell…fucking ridiculous.</p>
<p>“Don’t need anything. Pour yourself a drink and sit by the fire.”</p>
<p>Yes, he reminds himself, he called her down for company. And she makes good company, pretty and warm in his study, making him feel calm and desperately agitated all at once. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>v.	wife </p>
<p>When it finally happens, he is not expecting it. A little more than a year has passed since Grace’s death. In that year, her foundation has done exceedingly well. The family has decided to host a party to celebrate. </p>
<p>“Let the good, giving people see your fucking face, Tommy.” Aunt Pol says. She never cared for Grace, but she cares about the cause and she especially cares about maintaining donations. </p>
<p>His aunt is, as ever, correct. Over the next month his house turns into a circus. If he wanted to think of it, it’d remind him of the first wedding. But he doesn’t want to hurt, so he avoids the thought. </p>
<p>The night of the party finds him, as always, in his study. His brothers and their wives, Michael and Finn, Ada and Aunt Pol, Uncle Charlie and Johnny Dogs, are all sitting around him, engaging in various conversations. If he believed in such things, he’d say he’s a blessed man. All these people…stuck beside him even at his worst. Even when he was obvious in his selfishness. </p>
<p>And there, in the far corner by the doors, knelt down with Karl and Charlie and four of John’s kids, is Naomie. She looks impressive tonight. Not like a movie star, the way Grace might at an event like this. But like she belongs nevertheless. </p>
<p>The green velvet of her dress makes her skin and all that dirt-of-the-earth brown of hers look…inviting, Tommy starts to think, then decides on pretty. Good things grow in the dirt of the earth, he thinks. </p>
<p>The way she’s walked around all day, practicing her greetings, the look in her eyes – she’s serious about this night and meeting these people and being a good representation of the Shelby’s. </p>
<p>And her smile…she belongs for the simple fact that this family could use someone who smiles like that with no ulterior motive. He’ll never involve her in the business, for that reason alone, but the family falls apart a bit when he can’t see past work. He brings his whiskey to his lips and nods to himself. Yes, he thinks, she’ll be good for keeping the family together. </p>
<p>When the first guests start arriving, everyone shuffles out of his study. Aunt Pol raises that damn eyebrow at him and he meets her glare straight on. Taught him to be stubborn, she did, but he’ll always best her at it. </p>
<p>Pol passes Naomie on her way out, and then it’s just the two of them left. In his study. As it’s been the last few weeks. </p>
<p>She gets up from off the floor and remains near the door, looks at him that way that she does. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Tommy. But I think you can do it.” Always, always so fucking sweet. </p>
<p>“Don’t have to do anything I don’t want.” He says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He finishes his whiskey. </p>
<p>The idea of walking out of that door and talking to a room full of motherfuckers who want to use him, thinking about Grace all night, trying to keep his fucking brothers in line…he does not want to do it and she cannot understand how much or why. </p>
<p>He sighs and tilts his head back against his chair. Pinches his nose between his glasses, which he forgot he was fucking wearing. When he rights himself, Grace’s photo on his desk is the first thing he sees. Grace would have wanted this night so badly. He misses her. He thinks that she’d already be out there, laughing with donors and preparing to lay into him for being late. He’s thankful to her, for wanting him, for believing in him, for giving him Charlie. </p>
<p>Then he glances toward the door, toward Miss Naomie. She thinks he can do this because she doesn’t know any better. But no, he thinks, and remembers sweating and vomiting, her right there beside him. She’s seen him at his worst, knows he isn’t some mighty deity. She’s seen him at his worst and kept giving to him. She’s come down every night for weeks, out of her sleep, just to sit beside him in silence. </p>
<p>Like waking up to the sun on his face, he realizes slowly and peacefully that he’s thankful to Naomie - for wanting him, for believing in him, for taking care of Charlie. </p>
<p>Thinking on Grace and Naomie, Tommy stands up. He moves out from behind his chair. His suit is new, the lining silk. He feels powerful because he is powerful, but it helps to feel the evidence of his wealth and hard work brushing against him with every step.</p>
<p>He gets close enough to Naomie to smell (like oranges). She’s fucking pink in the cheeks as ever and smiling at him. He offers his arm, she takes it. Against his side, she does stand only right to his chin, just like he’d thought all those months ago. </p>
<p>He apologizes to Grace and then thanks her, almost simultaneously, for the presence of a different woman who loves him. Who he could learn to love, as well. </p>
<p>“Alright Mrs. Shelby, let’s have a fucking party, then.” He smiles, just a crooked little thing, but she stops breathing altogether. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>“My wife, Mrs. Naomie Shelby.” </p>
<p>He’s said it more than a dozen times in that timbre of his, with that accent of his, voice on the edge of a smirk like he does. </p>
<p>But Naomie, who clutches his arm (his arm!) just a little tighter every time, cannot get over it. She might float clear off into the sky. </p>
<p>Thomas Shelby smells amazing. And he feels amazing. And his steps are sure and powerful. And people look at him, talk to him, like he’s judge, jury, and executioner. And he smiled at her. </p>
<p>And he’s introducing her as his wife. They’ve been married nearly a year, and this is the first time she’s heard him say it, acknowledge it in any way. </p>
<p>She tries to keep her face demure and respectful. This is, after all, a party to celebrate the success of his late wife’s foundation. His late wife who died only a little over a year ago. It would be tacky, disgraceful, to let his words and his touch and his voice turn her into a smiling, giggling school girl. </p>
<p>(But sometimes, a donor will remark on her dress or her face or her hair, and Tommy will agree that the dress is lovely and she is quite pretty and her hair is beautiful. She brings her bottom lip into her mouth and bites it hard to stop from smiling then.) </p>
<p>All night, it’s like this. At dinner, Tommy sits at the head and she sits to his right. She makes sure her shoulders are straight and her gaze is direct and kind. She won’t disrespect Grace by being a poor wife to Tommy tonight. </p>
<p>She engages in polite conversation about Charlie’s growth and the horses and possible summer holidays with the donors sat directly beside her. She knows they must give generously to be seated here, so she does her best to make it worth their while. </p>
<p>He drinks through dinner and talks quietly to Aunt Pol and Arthur and John, who all sit within hearing distance. When she struggles with a response to her dinner-mate’s never-ending questions, he butts in politely and takes over the conversation. That he’s listening, even when he appears to be preoccupied, makes her face warm. </p>
<p>At the end of dinner, Tommy stands to give a speech. The room goes deathly quiet. Naomie finds Esme’s eye and holds it – she didn’t know he was speaking, and she feels as uncertain as she did that very first day walking into Arrow House. Esme smirks and looks toward Tommy. She takes the direction to do the same. </p>
<p>“I want to thank everyone for being here tonight, eating all my good food and drinking all my good gin.” He does actually feel upset about feeding all these people, but they take it for a joke and the dining room warms with laughter. </p>
<p>The rest of his speech is perfunctory – this was Grace’s dream, thank you for helping us reach it, we look forward to the new year. </p>
<p>And just when everyone is grabbing their drinks for a toast, Thomas Shelby, so coordinated and assured, stops speaking. The movement of the man ceases. His eyes stop roaming. It lasts a second or two, but it feels uncomfortable to Naomie. For a silly moment, she wonders if he’s been shot from a distance. </p>
<p>“And I’d like to thank Grace.” He starts up again, voice much lower, as though he’s in thought. </p>
<p>“I’d like to thank Grace for a great many things. For being my wife; she was good at that.” </p>
<p>Naomie knows Grace is the reason for the event, knows she was a wonderful mother and wife, so she tries to keep her face pleasant as she sits beside this man and in front of all of Grace’s people. </p>
<p>Tommy sighs, not done yet. “But I’d also like to thank Naomie Shelby, who you all met tonight. Seems I’m in luck. I get nothing but the good wives.” </p>
<p>Tommy sits. The room is silent for a moment – to mention his new wife at such an event is tacky and it won’t be written fondly of in the papers. </p>
<p>Naomie feels…melted through? happy? seen? absolutely nervous? She turns to him and he looks as though he doesn’t care about the papers and it makes her smile, not so secretly. </p>
<p>Arthur finally bellows “to the good wives!” and people start to toast and drink. </p>
<p>Naomie sips her champagne, giggling for reasons she doesn’t understand, the sound of it lost in the noise. She feels at home. She feels cared about. She feels like a woman. </p>
<p>Tommy notices. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>At about one in the morning, Tommy leaves his office. The brunt of the party is over. Some people though, are spending the night; he runs into a couple talking on his way through the foyer. He passes them with a nod and goes up the stairs. </p>
<p>He passes the master bedroom (which he will face when it’s time), passes Charlie’s old nursery, passes a guest bedroom where he can hear laughter, passes an empty guest bedroom, until finally he reaches the end of the hall. </p>
<p>This is the room where Naomie sleeps. He has never been in this room. </p>
<p>From what he can tell, the light is out. He hears nothing coming from the other side of the door. He knocks anyway. Naomie comes to him in the midst of her sleep so often, he knows one more night won’t hurt her.</p>
<p>“Come in,” she replies, voice muffled by pillows or sheets. </p>
<p>The door isn’t locked, with a house full of people no less. Naïve, he thinks. When he enters, he’s hit by the smell. The room is warm. The smell of her bed, of her sleep, that he’s gotten so used to at night, must come from the oils she uses to bathe. He spots the tub by her fire, spots the products near it. The smell is potent here, warm and calming like her eyes, like her voice. </p>
<p>He turns from the door and finds her in her bed. She hasn’t lifted her head to see him better, just a face peaking out from a bundle of sheets, hair wild around her face. She looks utterly pleased to see him. </p>
<p>“You’re going to start locking that door, Naomie.” He says, like when he’s telling her to request more whiskey from Mary or explaining the mechanics of his car. </p>
<p>“Okay, Tommy,” she says. Looking up at him from bed, it’s hard not to remember the way his arm felt in hers tonight. How he’d called her his wife. The bubbly, tender feeling of sitting beside a man who was proud of her. </p>
<p>She doesn’t wonder what he’s doing here. She knows. Finally, finally, he’s come for her. </p>
<p>Tommy undresses like he is sure of every button and every stich. He is not urgent. She doesn’t stop watching him – where else would she look? When he’s naked, her mouth gets a little dry and her nerves start hopping in the back of her throat. </p>
<p>He’s solid. She’s going to feel his weight on top of her. She’s going to touch him and smell him.</p>
<p>Naomie starts smiling as he moves toward the bed and Tommy almost chuckles. She’s excited for him and he’s excited for her. It’s a good feeling. </p>
<p>He pulls her blankets away from her. She moves to make space for him, but he kneels at the edge of her bed, reaches out, and places his hand near her collarbone. She nearly chokes. </p>
<p>“Take your gown off, Naomie.” He says, hand caressing her so near her throat. She’s easy to fluster, he thinks. It’s fun. </p>
<p>She sits up swiftly, pulls the gown up and over her head. She’s wearing nothing beneath. Tommy is looking at her body, but she’s looking at his face. Naomie thought she understood desire and yearning, but Tommy Shelby is her husband and he’s in her bed, so close to her. </p>
<p>Naomie pulls her knees beneath her and crawls the short distance to Tommy. She’ll touch him all over later, she thinks, but now…she wraps her arms around his middle and brings her face to his neck, like she thought of doing so long ago. He smells heady and thick and spicy here. She’ll find time to be embarrassed later, but she kisses his neck and lets out a small, needful sound. </p>
<p>Tommy, feeling absolutely lit up by her mouth on his skin and her breasts to his chest decides there’s no need for either of them to wait anymore. He pulls her away from his neck and kisses her – not gently, but with the force of so many months of want. He wants to be gentle, but Tommy can’t remember ever being with a virgin. He’ll fuck her with as much care as he can muster and that will need to be good enough. </p>
<p>She moans and squirms through his kiss. She is not artful, but she is wanting and energetic.</p>
<p>He moves her back into bed, on her back. Her eyes are blown wide already. She looks up at him and smiles, not knowing what else to do and so happy she could laugh. </p>
<p>It touches Tommy so much that, before he bends down to drag a finger through her folds, he kisses her forehead. Fuck’s sake, he thinks when his lips meet her face. </p>
<p>Then, “Fuck’s sake” aloud when he touches her cunt. All those nights in his study, looking at her blushing, he’d known she’d been wet. But feeling her is something different altogether. </p>
<p>She jerks her hips just a little at the touch and he holds her hips down with his free hand. </p>
<p>“Ever done this to yourself, Mrs. Shelby?” He asks, not really caring what she says. The plan’s to gather enough moisture and work a finger or two or three inside of her. He wants to keep her calm while he’s at it. </p>
<p>“Think of you sometimes when I do,” is her response, like she’s nervous to say it. Can’t be too nervous because she gushes, just a little bit and Tommy nods like he hasn’t just gotten two times harder. </p>
<p>“Your fingers,” he starts, pushing his pointer finger inside and feeling the spongey walls inside of her, “are probably good practice.” His voice is low, so low, so gentle. Guiding, the way she always imagined it would be. He hooks his finger inside of her and her stomach melts and she nearly screeches. </p>
<p>She feels a second finger near her hole, fighting to fit inside.</p>
<p>“Probably good practice,” he sighs like he’s bored and then shoves his middle finger inside of her, “but not quite the real thing, eh?” </p>
<p>Oh, she feels beside herself. It’s the way he’s talking to her. It’s the tightness she feels in her gut, in her cunt. It’s the way he hasn’t stopped looking at her face, like he might just fucking smile at her – like he’s enjoying himself. </p>
<p>She nods, he’s right it really isn’t anywhere near the real thing, and he rocks his wrist back and forth so that she’s losing her mind. The hand on her hip moves down, til he’s pressing right on her clit. </p>
<p>She does screech at that. </p>
<p>“Aht. We’ve got guests Mrs. Shelby. Mind your manners.” He says and he does smile. </p>
<p>It’s too many things at once – too much happiness in her heart, too many fingers in her cunt, too much pressure on her clit. Tommy presses down just shy of painful and rubs quickly, rocks his wrist inside of her, kisses the dip between her hip and her stomach; Naomie screams so loudly and orgasms so deeply that coming to feels like emerging from sleep. </p>
<p>Tommy is sitting at the end of her bed watching her like she matters. She can’t do anything but breathe very deeply at first, but just as she’s about to reach for him, he’s crawling back over her. </p>
<p>“You’re ready, Naomie.” He tells her, those eyes above her, pinning her as effectively as always. </p>
<p>“I am,” she agrees. She’s laid ready for him every night for months. She was prepared to take whatever he gave her, but that secret part she locked away (that might need to be reconsidered) is overjoyed that he wants to give to her, too. </p>
<p>She feels the head of him, blunt and large around in a way that makes her thighs tense and her breath fasten, running up and down across her slit. Her wetness is pooling and she wants him to feel it there, wants him to be pleased and proud of that. </p>
<p>Maybe he sees that in her eyes, maybe not. But he does think she looks hopeful and excited beneath him. So fucking pretty and so fucking wet. Tommy thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve so many good things in his life, like her trembling thighs around his hips. But he’s never had a problem taking things, deserved or not. And he knows at least Naomie wants to be taken. </p>
<p>“Breathe,” he tells her and when she starts to giggle and pushes the head of his cock barely into her. She jumps and tenses. “Yeah, so breathe.” </p>
<p>She does, harshly and with a fluttering heart, but deeply. Makes it easier to push inside, sliding eventually, until he bottoms out. Feels like breaking through a fucking tunnel, like parting a vice, he thinks. </p>
<p>He focuses his eyes on her face. Hopeful still, a little bit. Excited too. But awe – Naomie is looking at him like he’s really fucking done something. He’s used to people fearing him, wanting him, loving him. But he’s never seen anyone look at him in awe. </p>
<p>She opens her mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a low whine.</p>
<p>Tommy can’t think after that. He fucks wife, his patient, adoring, bright little wife, until she’s near sobbing, until he empties inside of her. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>After, he collapses beside her, just barely missing her face with his chest. She turns to face him, more asleep than awake, and Tommy pulls her into him. Her hair is a fucking mess, knotted no doubt. It smells as rich as the rest of her, though and Tommy figures there isn’t any reason why he can’t smell her like this, hold her like this, any night he wants. </p>
<p>“Tommy,” she says, surprising him. He feels her speak into his chest more than he hears her. </p>
<p>“Mm?” He wants a cigarette. He’ll keep a pack in her room, he thinks. Then decides, probably easier to move her in with me. </p>
<p>“’m glad I married you.” She sounds a little afraid to admit that. At first, he feels the routine anger of Grace’s death, of not having her. It fades quickly. He can’t have what he had, but what he has is pretty damn good. And happy to be with him, no less. He doesn’t deserve that much but…he takes and Naomie is willing to give. </p>
<p>One day, he’ll tell her how much he appreciates her. One day he’ll assure her that he sees her, sees how lovingly she gives. One day he’ll joke that her smile is brighter when he makes her feel good. </p>
<p>One day he might even commission a painting of her, maybe in the dress she wore tonight, to sit in his study on nights when she’s away. </p>
<p>For now, Tommy squeezes her hip and pulls her in even tighter. “Wasn’t a bad idea after all, eh?” She can hear the smile in his voice. </p>
<p>--- fin</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wanted to write something I haven't really seen here before. I kind of adore it. I hope you all do, too. </p>
<p>Title from my weekly twitter horoscope, written perfectly every week by Astro Poets.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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